Squinting through the sweat or sun. Camp 2007.

Reconnaissance is important, any military-type or pre-sale shopper will agree.

On my summer trip to Guilin I did a little scouting before snapping away. On a map, on my cheap hostel bed, I plotted what I wanted to shoot, and then went for a little walk. Early morning or late afternoon are the best times for photography (some may disagree). The light is colorful and warms up each frame.

I visited each location and looked at how it was situated in relation to the sun. How would it look at 8 am? How would it look at 7 pm? I used a little imagination, and knowledge. Luck is another factor in photography that most pros never acknowledge. I’m of the belief that most of the best photographs are accidental, and the artist is as surprised as those that view his or her work.

This is a tower shot at 9 am. Without putting too fine a point on it: It sucks.

This is same tower shot on my return, after planning for the late afternoon light. Much better, I think.

Scout before you shoot is the nugget I pass along. With a little luck, something great can be captured.

This is all from me for a while. I’m a little busy to post and comment. Real life, employment and obligations can be problematic. I’ll be in a cyber-suspended animation for the next week or so. Don’t you forget about me!

It had been a bad day for Stevo. At 12:15 he stood outside the airport, unsure where the bus from Hong Kong would drop off the arriving teacher. Verbally assaulted by touts, pointed at by the unenlightened, tired, and nearly out of cigarettes, he stood alone under a street light, much like his loner-hero Phillip Marlowe.

Pick out Liam and win a prize

The new teacher’s flight had been delayed for more than an hour because of a typhoon. Stevo had waited in another part of the city, hours earlier, at the ferry terminal. The newest edition arrived too late for the ferry and instead took the bus. Twenty hours of wakefulness did little to improve Stevo’s mood.

He lit his last cigarette, kicked a stone on the sidewalk, and paced like a 1950s father outside a hospital delivery room, cursing his job, his salary, his adopted country, and The Muppets.

A voice from the dark: Ta shi wo de yingwen laoshi! (He’s my English teacher!)

Stevo was only vaguely in Chinese mode. He had turned off that part of his brain to silence the touts.

A mother and son walked into the light. The boy was dressed in shorts and a bright shirt. Stevo had not seen him in anything but his school uniform.

“Hello,” called the small lad in a too big voice.

Stevo’s surprise was evident as he couldn’t recall the boy’s name, even though said student had been one of his favorites. He managed only a “Why, you!” and a slap on the back as the pair passed by. From the corner of his eye he saw the boy’s mother smile.

His mood improved, marginally. Instead of thinking dark thoughts and wishing pain upon puppets, he thought of Liam, his classmates and fun November afternoons.

Co-workers consult a clipboard during a summer camp activity.

An internet amigo wrote some months ago about wanting a golden shower. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. His golden shower was in fact a shower stall made of gold, not the practice some may be familiar with.

I’m a simple man, materialistically and intellect-wise. While a shower made of gold would be pretty I don’t know if conventional cleaning products would be able to assist in removing the soap scum from the walls. Do they make Mr. Clean Gold?

I digress.

I don’t want a golden shower, I want a cold shower. As simple as that. I would like to have my body assaulted by icy needles of H2O jetting from my showerhead. I want to shiver and wince, and smile, as polar water covers my body. I want my shower to be so cold that polar bears and penguins would be comfortable if I invited them to partake.

Why? The water in my shower, my whole apartment, is not cold. It’s a shade of cold. In a sub-tropical clime anything not refrigerated is hot. I can’t expect my shower water to be an icy blast when the mercury hovers around one hundred and the Humidex reading makes angels weep.

By the end of a hot day four wet shirts have taken up residence in my hamper. (I have yet to cross the mythical five shirt line. I think Nostradamus wrote something about the man who wears five shirts and a zombie apocalypse. I could be mistaken.) Do some errands, return to my apartment soaked. A walk home from school leaves me looking as if I’ve taken a dip in a pool.

With the change of shirt comes a shower, a lukewarm experience that does little to relieve my suffering. A cold shower would refresh. I dream of icebergs. Seeing Leonardo DiCaprio treading water at the end of Titanic makes me envious.

Some want golden showers, I wish for a cold one, blessed relief, however temporary.

Stop taking my picture.